single-malt scotch refreshed and he didn’t want to hear another word from the Moore

woman. What he wanted was his cell phone to ring, for his team leader to tell him that

Jason Bourne was in custody. That’s all he required of this day; he didn’t think it was too much to ask.

Nevertheless, it was true that his nerves were pulled tighter than a drawn bowstring. He

found himself wanting to scream, to punch someone; he’d almost launched himself like a

missile at Willard when the steward had approached him the last time-he was so damn

servile. Beside him, the Moore woman sat, one leg crossed over her knee, sipping her

damnable Ceylon tea. How could she be so calm!

He reached over, slapped the cup and saucer out of her hands. They bounced on the

thick carpet, along with what was left of the espresso, but they didn’t break. He jumped

up, stomped the china beneath his heel until it cracked and cracked again. Aware of

Soraya staring up at him, he snapped, “What? What are you looking at?”

His cell phone buzzed and he snatched it off the table. His heart lifted, a smile of

triumph wreathed his face. But it was a guard at the front gate, not the leader of his

extraction team.

“Sir, I’m sorry to bother you,” the guard said, “but the director of Central Intelligence

is here.”

“What?” LaValle fairly shouted his response. He was flooded with bitter

disappointment. “Keep her the fuck out!”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir.”

“Of course it’s possible.” He moved to the window. “I’m giving you a direct order!”

“She’s with a contingent of federal marshals,” the guard said. “They’re already on their

way to the main house.”

It was true, LaValle could see the convoy making its way up the drive. He stood,

speechless with confusion and fury. How dare the DCI invade his private sanctuary! He’d

have her in prison for this outrage!

He started, feeling someone standing next to him. It was Soraya Moore. Her wide lips

were curled in an enigmatic smile.

Then she turned to him and said, “I do believe it’s the end of days.”

The maelstrom closed around Bourne and Moira. What had once been a simple

demonstration was now a full-blown melee. He heard screams and shouts, hurled

invective, and then, under it all, the familiar high-low wail of police sirens approaching

from several different directions. Bourne was quite certain the NSA hit squad had no

desire to run afoul of the Munich police; it was therefore running out of time. The agent

near Bourne heard the sirens, too, and with his hands clearly still half numb from the bat

grabbed Moira around the throat.

“Drop the bat and come with me, Bourne,” he said against the rising tide of screams

and shouts, “or so help me I’ll break her neck like a twig.”

Bourne dropped the bat but, as he did so, Moira bit into the agent’s hand. Bourne drove

his fist into the soft spot just below his sternum then, taking hold of his wrist, he turned over the arm at an awkward angle, and with a sharp blow broke the agent’s elbow. The

agent groaned, went to his knees.

Bourne dug out his passport and earbud, threw the passport to Moira as he fitted the

electronic bud into his ear canal.

“Name,” he said.

Moira already had the wallet open. “William K. Saunders.”

“This is Saunders,” Bourne said, addressing the wireless network. “Bourne and the girl

are getting away. They’re heading north by northwest past the pagoda.”

Then he took her hand. “Biting his hand,” he said as they stepped over the fallen agent.

“That was quite a professional move.”

She laughed. “It did the trick, didn’t it?”

They made their way through the mob, heading southeast. Behind them, the NSA

agents were shoving their way toward the opposite side of the mass of people. Ahead, a

corps of uniformed policemen outfitted in riot gear were trotting along the path, semi-

automatics at the ready. They passed Bourne and Moira without a second look.

Moira glanced at her watch. “Let’s get to my car as quickly as possible. We have a

plane to catch.”

Don’t give up. Those three words Tyrone had found in his oatmeal were enough to

sustain him. Kendall never came back, nor did any other interrogator. In fact, his meals

came at regular intervals, the trays filled with real food, which was a blessing because he didn’t think he could ever get oatmeal down again.

The periods when the black hood was taken off seemed to him longer and longer in

duration, but his sense of time had been shot, so he didn’t really know whether or not that was true. In any case, he’d used those periods to walk, do sit-ups, push-ups, and squats,

anything to relieve the terrible, bone-deep aching of his arms, shoulders, and neck.

Don’t give up. That message might just as well have read You’re not alone or Have

faith, so rich were those words, like a millionaire’s cache. When he read them he knew

both that Soraya hadn’t abandoned him and that something inside the building, someone

who had access to the basement, was on his side. And that was the moment when the

revelation struck him, as if, if he remembered his Bible correctly, he were Paul on the

road to Damascus, converted by God’s light.

Someone is on my side -not the side of the old Tyrone, who roamed his hood with

perfect wrath and retribution, not the Tyrone who’d been saved from life in the gutter by

Deron, not even the Tyrone who’d been awed by Soraya. No, once he spontaneously

thought Someone is on my side, he realized that my side meant CI. He had not only

moved out of the hood forever, but also stepped out from under Soraya’s beautiful

shadow. He was his own man now; he’d found his own calling, not as Deron’s protector,

or his disciple, not as Soraya’s adoring assistant. CI was where he wanted to be, in the

service of making a difference. His world was no longer defined by himself on one side

and the Man on the other. He was no longer fighting what he was becoming.

He looked up. Now to get out of here. But how? His best choice was to try to find a

way to communicate with whoever had sent the note. He considered a moment. The note

had been hidden in his food, so the logical answer would be to write a note of his own

and somehow hide it in his leftovers. Of course, there was no way to be sure that person

would find the note, or even know it was there, but it was his only shot and he was

determined to take it.

He was looking around for something to use to write when the clanging of the door

brought him up short. He turned to face it as it opened. Had Kendall returned for more

sadistic playtime? Had the real torturer arrived? He took a fearful glance over his

shoulder at the waterboarding tank and his blood turned cold. Then he turned back and

saw Soraya standing in the doorway. She was grinning from ear to ear.

“God,” she said, “it’s good to see you!”

How nice to see you again,” Veronica Hart said, “especially under these

circumstances.”

Luther LaValle had come away from the window; he was standing when the DCI,

flanked by federal marshals and a contingent of CI agents, entered the Library. Everyone

else in the Library at the time goggled, then at the behest of the marshals beat a hasty

retreat. Now he sat ramrod-straight in his chair, facing Hart.

“How dare you,” LaValle said now. “This intolerable behavior won’t go unpunished.

As soon as I inform Secretary of Defense Halliday of your criminal breach of protocol-”

Hart fanned out the photos of the rendition cells in the basement. “You’re right, Mr.

LaValle, this intolerable behavior won’t go unpunished, but I believe it will be Secretary